


Pulling The Trigger

by Senket



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, M/M, Past Abuse, Physical Abuse, Sexual Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-02-26
Updated: 2011-05-10
Packaged: 2017-11-15 16:25:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/529252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Senket/pseuds/Senket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>based on the prompt from <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/profile"><img class="i-ljuser-userhead"/></a><a class="i-ljuser-username" href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/"></a><b>sherlockbbc_fic</b> Part XI: <em>Sherlock has an epiphany that makes him figure out everything that  happened in Lestrade's past - and it's so horrific and disturbing that  stoic, composed Sherlock starts crying/screaming/vomiting.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Transparency

Sherlock was on his way home when he heard the sirens. Bored to death, he promptly demanded that the cabby change direction towards the sounds- using a bit of clever roof-spotting, Sherlock managed to sneak his way into the crime scene before it had fully been cordoned off, peering down.

Unfortunately the crime itself seemed to have happened in the underpass beneath Pillar Hercules, near Soho Square- at least, there were more guards here. He couldn’t see a thing, but he knew he was sure to find it interesting; he could smell the metallic tang of blood from here. Making his way around as quietly as possible, Sherlock waited until they were otherwise distracted before dropping down, wandering over to see the scene.

The walls were painted with blood-not in the way they might’ve been during a rage-induced massacre, but literally. Large loopy words were written with a blunt-edged paintbrush, improbable in the thickness of the words. _‘My playthings have all run out now. Time to find more. Miss you always.’_ The words were followed by a big, loopy smiley-face, barely smudged by the dribble of too much blood. Sherlock shivered, delight more than anger. Moriarty? No, it couldn’t be, this was _far_ too blatant, far too _small-time_.

His footsteps echoed as he walked a little deeper, wishing he’d brought a torch. He almost smiled when he heard floodlights turn on, a wash of white light crashing over him. It dropped off his face in an instant, replaced with a warm and interested ‘oh’.

Several coppers shot forward at noticing him, intent to take him in, but Sally had gotten there by then already. She hated Sherlock, sure, but she certainly hated the man (had to be) that had committed this crime more, didn’t she? So she’d let him work, yes?

A glance at her, and Sherlock noticed the angry resignation on her face as she warned the other coppers away from him. He flashed a cheeky smile, throwing his coattails back dramatically as he marched up to the two bodies pushed against the wall.

Crouching, he leaned forward ever so close, sniffing. It was hard to smell anything over the stench of blood, but he could detect the stench of decay. Leaning away, he looked more closely, snapping on a pair of latex gloves he kept in his pocket for such lucky occasions.

The victims were two men, side by side, stripped bare and tied in great lengths of rope. The knots were familiar- Sherlock grazed a finger against the unyielding ropes. Thick, heavy cords, tied in Kinbaku style, holding their knees pulled against their ribs, parted, leaving them entirely exposed.

Sherlock pressed his fingers lightly against the men’s arms and legs. They were soft, strangely mouldable, fluid instead of muscle. He pushed around the ropes, inspecting bruising patterns. Slivers of the thick cording had struck into the skin, and from the colour and indentations of the marks he could deduce that they’d been tied that way for a long, long while. Months- but not tied and left, because the bits of cording trapped in skin didn’t reflect properly in the actual rope, therefore it must’ve been changed sometimes, replaced at least, though the style and placement of the knots never would have deviated.

He traced the edge of ribs, eyes narrowed. They each had long identical scars: one down each side and one across their lowest ribs, one fishhook along their bellies, thick and angry red. He imagined they would have two more on their back. They all looked surgical by location and style; looking more closely he could see the traces of infection along the edge of the last, most recent one. The newer the scar the worse it seemed to have healed.

Coupled with the emaciated bodies, fluid-inflated limbs, shrivelled testicles and dry, flaking skin, Sherlock could tell the two men had clearly been undernourished for an extended period of time.

Saying nothing of the blood and unmistakable but unspeakable bodily fluids caked over their thighs.

The blood on the wall maybe theirs, but not taken recently. He gathered that the cluster of needle-marks in the crooks of their elbows had sometimes been for drugs, but sometimes for ‘donation.’ Carefully leaning one of the men forward, one hand braced against his chest, Sherlock saw a line of dots descending down his spine, too. Interesting. What was more interesting was the burn mark precisely between the man’s shoulder blades. Not a cigarette burn, but a deliberate brand, the image of a tiny crane. The irony struck him as heavy, but no doubt the assailant wouldn’t see it that way.

The scars showed the victims to be beyond just- pleasure slaves, or whatever the term was. Body for Experiment, more accurately.

He stood, stepping back to observe them from afar, snapping off his gloves. Sherlock turned just as he heard a car door slam; Lestrade, no doubt. Dimmock was on a different (boring) case at the moment, and anyway the younger man closed doors with more consideration.

He turned with a cocked eyebrow, looking amused. “I assume they were lovers in Soho, they both disappeared, everyone agreed they’d run off together, you lot dropped the case, and-”

And it turned to white noise as he saw Lestrade _stop_.

Sherlock had seen a lot of crime scenes that had come with people leaning against the wall outside, emptying their stomachs. Lestrade had been to every one, looking sad for the victims, angry at the assailants, exhausted with the state of the world, but he’d never let it get to him, not any more than he could afford.

But here they were. It wasn’t a particularly atrocious bloodbath- they’d been there. It hadn’t been marked with serial, hateful violence, someone’s entire body literally bashed in with fists and feet- been there far too often. They’d even seen cannibalism, a pile of festering corpses with lovely chunks clearly torn off with teeth.

Lestrade was frozen in place, eyes glassy and unseeing. Noise, lights and people clamoured around them, but neither man noticed.

When Lestrade moved it was to turn away, swiftly walk from the scene on shaking legs.

Sherlock didn’t miss the man’s aborted movement towards the back of his neck. He sucked in a sudden breath, tripping sideways until his shoulder hit the other side of the underpass.

He’d checked Lestrade’s file, of course, in a fit of boredom. He’d noticed the mysterious two-and-a-half month gap in the man’s records a few years before their first meeting. Hadn’t really cared about it, because Lestrade was transparent. _He’d thought Lestrade was transparent._

Lestrade, who had spent up to fifty days tied in the constant pressure of thick, restricting ropes, used for _whatever_ purpose. Drugged. Cut into. Experimented on. Drained of blood. Malnourished. Kept in the dark and, if he was very lucky, with a ‘friend,’ someone else in the same situation.

Lestrade who’d gotten out and never said _anything_ , but had a crane burned between his shoulder blades and probably six different surgical scars.

Sherlock doubled over from the sudden pain in his abdomen, remembering the DI’s flushed face when Sally had once brought up the destructive nature of anorexia to a young woman, remembering the thin, almost afraid, lines around the man’s mouth and eyes when he’d told Sherlock to _knock off the damn drugs_ , remembered a thousand aborted moves towards his neck whenever they came across prostitution rings, BDSM gone wrong, missing organs-

He stumbled forward, leaning heavily against the flaking brick, forcing down the pain swimming behind his eyes. It struck him hard and fast- he jerked forward and before he knew it he was heaving all over his shoes.

He fell to his knees and coughed and gagged until only a string of saliva came out his mouth, the smell of sick making his stomach roll.

“Are- Freak, are you alright?”

‘Oh Sally,’ he thought with hysteria, ‘don’t you see, everything is all wrong?’

He glanced up at her and she gasped in surprise, stepping back involuntarily. He looked a mess, lips discoloured and eyes red, track of tears unbidden at the corner of his left eye down to his chin.

“Jesus Christ,” she shivered. “You stay right there, I’m going to call John.”

He watched her move, eyes widening when he, again, caught the text on the wall opposite. 

_ ’ My playthings have all run out now. Time to find more. Miss you always.  _ _ : )’ _

_ ’Miss you always.  _ _ :) ’ _

_ ’Miss you always.  _ _ :) ’ _

He barely noticed when Sally threw a blanket around him and led him away.


	2. Deadweight Seesaw

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had every intention of making this a triangle between Lestrade and the Holmes brothers. Then John wandered in, made himself a cuppa and ensconced himself before I had time to notice he was even around. He didn’t even have the decency to look embarrassed about it, afterwards. ...Wanker. And I’m going to head off all of you Mycroft defenders: Yes, I know, I love him too, and I’d find it out of character for ACD Mycroft, but a yo-yo dieter is bound to have body image problems. Also, un-edited, un-brit-picked.

John manhandled Sherlock back into 221b, the dangerously pale man leaning heavily against him, stumbling like a drunk.

“Everything is wrong,” Sherlock mumbled into John’s hair, pulse fluttering in his throat.

John murmured something meaningless back, swaying only slightly under the cumbersome body as he heaved Sherlock onto the couch. He fetched blankets and put on the kettle, calling the nearest Chinese for egg-noodle soup. He smiled, strained and tired, as he bundled Sherlock up, keeping a firm touch. “I’ve ordered us some soup. We’ll load it with soy sauce; get lots of salt in you, ey?” His smile grew, eyes softening as he pushed dark curls out of Sherlock’s face.

John felt oddly tired. He never would have imagined this, him nursing a shocked and unresponsive Sherlock. He wasn’t absolutely sure what had set him off; he’d done the best he could, considering, taking snapshots of the upsetting crime-scene and forwarding them to Mycroft, shepherding Sherlock back home, trusting the older Holmes to figure things out, help them. Not knowing the cause was making emotional care harder, but he could do the basics until then. He’d seen worse in Afghanistan, of course, but Sherlock was different. War did not move him. Pain did not haunt him. Death did not wake him. What could have chained him?

John fetched Sherlock a pair of pyjama pants, a sleeping shirt and his fluffy blue bathrobe, helped him change (doing most of the work really) and bundled the vomit-scented clothes together, quickly hustling them to the back room. He came back with a wet washcloth, carefully wiping the man’s mouth, chin and neck before disposing of the flannel as well.

He stood to get the door when the delivery rang, and was stopped by a sudden hand on his bicep, grip strong enough to bruise but thoughtless.

He turned to find Sherlock looking straight at him, expression twisted with something like incomprehension, maybe fear. “It’s all wrong, John.”

He sat beside the man, ignoring the doorbell for now, laying his spare hand over Sherlock’s, stroking his thumb across clammy skin. “ _What’s_ wrong, Sherlock?” John’s voice was soft, reserved for cracking men and children.

“I didn’t see it,” he answered, an edge of hurt desperation in his voice. “I didn’t look, and everyone else was too _stupid_ to see, and now he’s still out there, _don’t you see_ , he’s still out there six years later and I never caught him because I _never even started looking and_ _it’s all **wrong**!_ ”

“Sherlock!” John gripped the man’s shoulders tightly, holding him steady as he stared straight at him. “Listen. Sherlock, _listen,_ ” he hissed when the detective’s grey eyes started to mist over again.

“Sherlock, listen. This is important. Okay?” He waited, tightened his fingers when the man shook. “ _Okay_?”

“Okay,” Sherlock breathed back, bony fingers curling tightly around John’s wrists, as though to a lifeline. 

‘That’s it,’ John thought, half doctor half friend, all care. ‘Hold on, I’ve got you.’ “Good. This man. We’re going to catch him, you hear?”

Sherlock hiccupped something, hands shaking, nails biting into the tender skin at the underside of John’s wrists.

The kettle was screaming for attention, the doorbell had ceased to ring. John paid those things no mind at all, forging on. “You hear me, Sherlock?”

“I hear you,” he answered, sounding like a ghost.

“Good.” His shoulders slumped. He nodded to himself, squaring up, sucking in a deep breath. “Good, Sherlock. You’re going to be absolutely brilliant, and you’ll catch him in no time at all, and he’ll go to jail for the rest of his life. Right, Sherlock?”

He didn’t need as much pressure now, nodding slowly. “Right.”

John smiled encouragingly, giving the man’s shoulders another firm squeeze. “Good. I’ll just go make us a cuppa, shall I? Get some food. Stay right here.” He pressed a hand against the nape of Sherlock’s neck for a moment, pressing their foreheads together before standing.

John froze upon turning, finding their flat door open and there, centred in the middle of the frame, ashen: Mrs. Hudson, holding a bag of Chinese and looking up at him with the eyes of a little girl.

He very consciously and carefully did not curse, swallowing back his groan, replacing it with a delicate smile. “Mrs. Hudson. Thank you so much for getting that. As you can see, I had more important matters at hand. How much do I owe you?”

She gibbered something, clearly upset. ‘Fight your battles one at a time,’ he thought frantically, knowing that continued exposure to Sherlock would only upset the woman further. John flashed a quick smile as he took the food from her. “I’ll just return the favour at another time, shall I? Have a wonderful evening, Mrs. Hudson.”

He pulled back for a moment, made an odd back and forth shuffle with his feet as he reconsidered, and leaned in to give her a brief one-armed hug.

“I promise all will be well soon,” he whispered to her, as though sharing a secret. “Have a good night’s rest.”

She nodded, disjointed and puppet-like. John sighed, smiling again as he patted her arm. “That’s a good girl. Good evening, Mrs. Hudson.”

He watched her go before busying himself with their meal.

\----------

Mycroft had so many reservations when it came to Lestrade. He had spent far too long watching the man through the lenses of Closed Circuit networks and often-moved spy cams. He knew the signs when it came to instability in his mental or emotional health. He knew how to support him, calm him, right him, and steady him. He devoted far more of his time and effort to the practice than he ought to, certainly more than he could realistically spare. He worried, sharply and constantly, about the man, just as he worried about Sherlock, his treasured only brother. It was love.

It didn’t lead anywhere. He couldn’t pretend their relationship meant what he wanted it to. Lestrade always came to him when he couldn’t stand it anymore, because Mycroft was the _best_ , the most secretive, because Lestrade never had to explain what was wrong and never had to worry about returning the favour, because he would be _safe_. Not because he loved Mycroft back.

He had tried, god knew he had. You could only lightly touch someone’s shoulder and see that person flinch back without looking at you before you stopped. You could only sit beside someone and feel them reach for something pointless just to explain a shift away before you started leaving a foot of space between you instead of bearing the pain. You could only-

He’d tried to make himself attractive to the other man. He made himself less threatening, first, tossing away his jackets, vests and ties whenever the door closed behind them. He lost weight. He kept it off. It didn’t change anything.

And then he got the pictures from John Watson’s phone. Blood on the wall. Ropes. Scars. Cranes. Clear signs of sexual abuse.

Panicked moments after dark, closed spaces. An aversion to handcuffs, despite them being part of the man’s job. The frequency of Lestrade’s visits after kidnap victims. The man’s refusal to remove his over-shirt no matter the temperature, or even roll up his sleeves past his elbow.

God. And he’d been thinking of himself all this time. _Himself. Stupid._

All this time studying the man, he was so damn _blind_. Thinking about his own loss instead of looking after Lestrade.

_ Looking after Lestrade! _

He almost fell over himself running for his laptop, frantic as he dialed for the man, panicking when it rang out. _Not now, not now,_ he thought, running through cameras as fast as the images could load clearly. _Find him find him find him._

_ Why haven’t I put a damn tracker in his phone? _

Because Lestrade would stop talking to him if he found out. Hah!

He froze when he heard timid knocking, turning slowly. Swallowing, Mycroft moved to the door, slow and soundless. His ears were ringing. He eased the door open, feeling his pulse thrumming dully at the bottom of his throat.

“Gregory,” he sighed in relief, feeling himself unfreeze. He stared for a moment, eyes dancing over the man’s form, inspecting his body language. He paused again when their eyes met, Lestrade’s half-open and glassy. “God, sorry. Come in.”

Lestrade walked past him with even, mechanical steps, dropped down on the couch and leaned forward, head between his knees, breathing loud and regulated.

He wished he had his umbrella to grasp, jaw clenching as he concentrated on keeping his hands still. He wanted to check the man’s pulse with his thumb, the man’s temperature with his palm, his stillness, his stability, feel that he was _there_.

He fetched a glass of water instead, forcing down his panic. He’d deal with it later.

\----------

Sally ground her teeth, looking and looking and looking at the scene. Anderson was standing beside her, puzzled as he glanced between her and the bodies. “What’re you looking at?” He asked, clearly unperturbed by the scene in the way only a veteran to the murder squad could be.

She felt her lips purse, turning her eyes to him for a moment before returning to her scrutiny.

“Something about this upset Sherlock Holmes of all people, and I need to figure out what.”

He scoffed. “What for? Who cares what _he_ thinks?”

“Not only that,” she said, shaking her head. Sally had authority without effort, carrying knowledge of herself and of people: how to treat them, how to deal with them, and what their actions meant. She had intuition not deduction. ‘Women’s intuition,’ he often teased, but it was a Police Officer’s Intuition, obvious and unmistakable. Anderson always admired that about her. “But Lestrade’s come and gone.”

“What, past his bed time?”

She slapped his arm without tearing her eyes away from the scene, intent as she looked at the bodies, the message on the wall. After a long moment, she swore, brusquely and imaginatively.

“What? What’ve you just figured out?”

“Never mind,” she told him sharply, heels echoing loudly in the closed space as she marched to the nearest panda, reaching for the radio transmitter. “Sergeant Donovan here. I need to talk to the Chief Inspector about the new case.”

\----------

Mycroft traded a blanket for Lestrade’s jacket, bending down to help the man out of his shoes. Just as soon as they were gone, Lestrade tucked his legs against himself on the couch, curling a socked foot around the other.

Mycroft smiled mildly, hanging up the man’s jacket and placing his shoes on the rack within the coat closet, fiddling perhaps more than he ought to with laces and lapels before coming back, leaning against the wall as he observed.

Lestrade treated the worn cover like the embraces he wouldn’t allow, nose buried against the fabric as he breathed slow and deep. The man had fallen asleep on the couch more than once, the large cream blanket Mycroft always gave him twisted into a cocoon. Endearing as the image was, it made Lestrade look young, small and fragile- a false reflection, of course. He’d always know the detective was stronger than he liked to show, but that Lestrade had so complete obscured both Holmes brothers to the overwhelming trauma in his life- that took astounding mental force, as well.

“Hungry?” He asked softly, gaze fixing on the movement of the man’s eyebrows.

“Couldn’t eat,” he answered matter-of-factly, pulling the blanket under his chin just long enough to speak before resuming his position.

“Drink, at least.” Mycroft inclined his head towards the glass of water he’d left on the low, pearl-inlaid oak table before Lestrade, sitting between a crystal bowl of wrapped sweets and the day’s paper, still held together by an elastic band.

The single shoulder shrug told him Lestrade would consider it, but probably not actually bother. The man certainly didn’t need a nanny, anyway. Shedding layers, Mycroft sat in the armchair set up at a right angle from the couch, propping his elbow on the coffee table. “Did you want a film?”

Lestrade glanced at him; their gazes held for a moment, unwavering. Mycroft smiled slightly. “Reading, then?” Reading meant Mycroft reading aloud, news stories most often, Lestrade curled on the couch with his head on the armrest nearest to the other man’s seat, eyes closed and muscles relaxed as he listened, occasionally making comments on the material in a voice so soft Mycroft sometimes took several moments to piece together the words. He had a particular fondness for the activity himself, but Lestrade seemed far too alert for it.

The policeman’s attention slid to the shelves of books across from him. He sighed after a moment, slouching back into the couch’s thick cushions.

Mycroft chuckled lightly and picked up the newspaper, snapping it open and plucking out a single page, crisply folding it in half, creasing the line with his fingernails. He tossed the rest of the paper in a magazine bin pressed against his armchair, snatching a heavy pen from his pocket, and set on the crosswords.

(Despite Mycroft’s astounding analytical mind and creative capacity for thought, crosswords sometimes required pop culture knowledge he just did not have the time or fortitude to teach himself. Lestrade's peculiar gift at remembering a clutter of obscure and irrelevant trivia made him an excellent partner for solving that particular kind of problem.)

Mycroft solved it leisurely and without seeming to be especially conscious of Lestrade’s presence, glancing over only when the other man offered an answer to a particular clue. The detective unravelled slowly. Eventually the blanket folded under his chin; a few minutes later, his shoulders peered over the fabric.

By the time they started the second puzzle, Lestrade was stretched sideways, one freed limb slung over the couch arm, one foot grazing the floor and the other leg extended over two cushions, blanket puddled in his lap, peering thoughtfully over Mycroft’s arm.

Mycroft nearly laughed with relief when Lestrade mocked him for misspelling an actress’s name, unable to resist the fondness melting across his face when he caught the other man’s smile.

\----------

John’s eyes were fixed on the television. They itched, dry and irritated, but he soldiered on, keeping awake. After dinner, he had managed to coax Sherlock into stretching across the couch to sleep where John could keep a firm eye on him. The pale man now had his head pillowed in John’s lap, nose pressed against the doctor’s stomach, breathing deep and even.

John shifted his leg gently from where he had it propped up on the cluttered coffee table, trying not to wake Sherlock while dispelling the pins and needles of a limb without proper blood flow. He winced when he accidentally shifted too far and knocked a half-full container of soup, staring helplessly at the expanding puddle of white-yellow broth, a clutter of egg-white slowly oozing towards his house slippers. Nothing to be done about it now.

The man sighed, lifting his hand from Sherlock’s curls to rub his eyes. The detective began to tense almost immediately, whispers of mumbles passing his lips. John sighed, returning to the careful and rhythmic rustle of fingers over the other man’s scalp. He could be such a child sometimes. Really.

John’s smile was fond as he returned his attention to the flicker of colours across their screen.


	3. Gargoyles

John shocked awake, surprise nearly making him tumble over. He blinked owlishly for a second before realizing what had caused his sudden awareness: Sherlock had bolted off him in one move, storming through the small flat to his bedroom, and slammed the door shut. John swayed for a moment, stretching limb by limb, cracking his sore back before standing. Just as he set the kettle, a fully dressed and renewed (if still smelling of fear-sweat) Sherlock snatched it away from him, setting it down on the counter and shutting off the stove. “We’re going,” the detective told him without consideration. “We’ll grab something on the way if we really _must_. Change.”

“Can I at least get a shower in?” he asked, irritated.

“We won’t be gone long,” Sherlock snapped, already pulling on his coat, picking sweets wrappers out of his pocket and staring disdainfully at them before tossing them behind him. He continued on this vein as John watched, sighing. Sherlock shot him a hard glance, freezing in his movements to emphasize the expression.

Fine, then, John thought. At least the man wasn’t panicking anymore. He moved to the bedroom upstairs, dressing at a reasonable rate. Sherlock barged in just as he finished buttoning his shirt, awkwardly puppeteering John into his jacket as the doctor tried to put on his shoes. After a frustrating minute of nothing getting done except for a few accidental swats to the shoulders and neck, John threw Sherlock off him, bellowing “would you settle down!”

The lanky male sat at the end of John’s bed, petulantly kicking his feet against the carpet as John finished getting dressed. They left in silence, each staring out opposite windows as their cab rumbled down London streets.

////

“Expecting a hard day?” Mycroft asked over raspberry jam and toast, gaze flickering towards the worn thumb rubbing rhythmically over an unseen mark on the back of Lestrade’s neck. The detective grumbled something against the polished marble of Mycroft’s breakfast island, his other hand tapping restlessly against the edge of the bowl of oats the man had made but not eaten.

“You shouldn’t worry so much; you’ll raise your cholesterol.” Mycroft smiled, diverting his eyes when Lestrade peered up at the words, knowing brown eyes narrowing.Domesticity was really an underrated beauty. He certainly wouldn’t mind the other things that word typically implied, but one took what one could. If it meant Gregory Lestrade giving him a _look_ when he poked fun, he was absolutely fine with that.

Lestrade gathered his hands under him, pushing off until he was sitting up again, pulling his plate back under himself. He stared blankly at the drab mush for a minute before liberally pouring in milk, throwing in a handful of blueberries and walnuts, stirring resolutely. Mycroft smiled against his cup of tea and detoured his attention to the morning paper.

////

Sherlock rushed out of the cab the moment it stopped moving, leaving John to pay as he stomped through New Scotland Yard.

He stormed into the Chief Inspector’s office like an angry god, slamming his hands down on the desk and leaning perilously close. He seemed rather unperturbed to find a man crashing into his space, hovering threateningly over him, and glanced past to see how people outside were reacting.

“Take him off the case.” Sherlock’s voice was hot with anger and urgency, ignoring John as the other man came in behind him, having followed the trail of unnerved or irritated constables. John merely leaned against the wall behind Sherlock, arms crossed as he watched the two men.

The CI slumped into his chair, staring up at the tall man with a narrow squint. “Sorry?”

“ _Take him off the case,_ ” he repeated in a deathly quiet hiss, fingers white where he gripped the edge of the desk.

The inspector rolled his eyes- Sherlock nearly leapt across the wood, itching to wrap his fingers around the man’s throat until he got a proper reaction.

“Listen, son, there’s hardly ever one case going on at a-“

“ _Lestrade. Soho._ Take him off the case!”

The policeman sighed- just before Sherlock could reach out and _hit_ him, a knock against the doorframe distracted him. He straightened up in a flurry, glancing back to identify the intruder while straightening his coat.

Dimmock stood in the doorway, staring at the pair with reluctant curiosity. Making eye contact with Sherlock changed his expression to one of surprise- he blinked rapidly. Sherlock looked away first, stepping away from what might be considered threatening distance. The young detective inspector exchanged glances with John, who merely flashed a grim smile.

Dimmock shot him another strange look before moving to face the chief inspector, clearing his throat. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

“Assignment for you,” the man said coolly, pushing a folder towards the younger man. “You’ll be working with Sally Donovan on this one, since she was present on the crime scene. And this one, apparently,” the man scoffed, gesturing at Sherlock.

Dimmock glanced between them. He cleared his throat and flipped the folder open- promptly went white at the image of two pale, bruised, scarred men bound one beside the other, blood on the wall.

Sherlock stepped backwards, startled- made a hasty exit. Of course Mycroft(1) would’ve thought of it. Stupid. Embarrassing.

He half-ran out of the New Scotland Yard, collapsing into himself once he slid into a cab, forehead pressed against the seat in front of him. Relief made him weak.

John managed to slip in at the last second, casting a watchful gaze over Sherlock’s hunched shoulders.

/////

“Sally.”

“Sherlock.”

John glanced between them, tense. Their expressions were identical, unhappy with the forced partnership but ready to see it through despite mutual dislike. He could already envision it, escalating arguments devolving into shouting matches tending towards physical, the other officers cowed, leaving John to play arbiter.

They stared at each other silently until John sighed heavily- they both stared at him, then, expressions carefully blank. He gritted his teeth, smiling edgily. “Well?”

Sally cleared her throat, turning to look at Sherlock, who merely quirked an eyebrow at his flatmate before turning his attention to the woman.

Dimmock marched in, then, head buried in the case files. He froze when he looked up, glancing rapidly between the two clashing characters before settling his gaze on John, clearly questioning. The doctor only shrugged.

“Thoughts, then?” Dimmock asked, moving forward and slapping the folder down on the corner desk. He refused to involve himself in the silent conversation; it wasn’t relevant, after all.

Sally leaned back against the wall, gesturing at Sherlock to start. He stared for a moment, apparently surprised, before launching into a diatribe.

“The style of knotting and the image of the crane suggest an Eastern leaning: either a familial bond or simply one of interest. Despite the reasoning behind it, it’ll show in his area of residence, probably spill into his workplace. The crane represents health and happiness; clearly not the victims’ happiness. Combined with the scars placed in ideal position for organ surgery, he is likely to be using them for trial experiment.” He started to pace, clearly upset with the thought, hands gripped together behind his back while he moved, increasingly agitated.

“That leads to my next point. Most likely this character is involved in a medical institution. We should look into any pharmaceutical company that have been coming out with new treatments in the last few years without a visible research or trial testing trail.”

“Most of them are like that,” John interjected hollowly. “A lot of money is involved in drug development; they guard their research jealously from other companies.”

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders like he was trying to shake off something, tossing his head as he increased his speed. “He’ll probably be ranked higher up: executives have much freer schedules, harder to notice anomalies. A branch head, at the very least, so that higher ranks don’t wonder where the research comes from. He must have some place to keep his ‘guests’, but I’ll need a closer look to determine where. Could be in his home, could be in a lab. Unlikely, since he would have to be sure no other employees or cleaners would discover what he was up to- unless, oh,” and where normally his eyes would have lit up, he looked furious, “he’s got a whole team with him.” An image of the dead men, streaked with fluids, blazed through his mind. He slammed his fist against the wall. No one reacted.

“Regardless, those are the facts. Research head, Pharmaceutical company, some sort of attachment to the Orient, male, older, at least two subjects kidnapped from Soho. Do we have the files on the victims yet?”

Sally shook her head. “We haven’t placed them, yet.”

Sherlock nodded abruptly, grinding his knuckles against his temples.

“Why is this a man?” Dimmock asked casually, arms crossed as he half-sat on his desk.

Sherlock stared hard at him, as though he didn’t comprehend the question, as though the sheer stupidity of the detective inspector’s words had shut his mind down.

Dimmock blinked, glancing at John and Sally. They were both staring back at him with the same blank expression. He huffed, rolling his eyes. “Yes, fine. I know. I was just checking.”

////

“Were you in Soho?”

Lestrade lifted his head, rubbing his fingers over his short hair as he peered up at Sherlock. “Beg your pardon?”

“I have to know,” Sherlock said breathlessly, swallowing. He seemed to teeter back as Lestrade watching him. “Were you in Soho when you were taken?”

Lestrade swallowed, rubbing his thumb over his lips as he thought. He would kill for a cigarette right about now- something else to concentrate on. “Yeah, I was in Soho.”

“ _How did nobody-_ “ Sherlock hissed, his eyes wide and uncharacteristically exposed as he drove forward, fingers clenching the edge of the inspector’s desk.

“Deep cover,” Lestrade interrupted, tone flat.

Sherlock looked about to speak again, so he shrugged and spoke further. He didn’t really want to hear the man try to pick his past apart; he didn’t like that it had been revealed at all. He’d been dreading this day for years. “Only met with my handler every second week. They started looking the moment I missed my second consecutive check-in, but there weren’t many leads. I was released when the police started getting too close for _his_ comfort.”

Sherlock looked lost, somehow, the muscles in his arms shivering with tension. “But why didn’t you tell anybody?”

“I couldn’t afford to,” he answered tightly, dark eyes flickering away to fix on his paperwork; anywhere but at the other man, at the crowd of people milling just outside his door.

Sherlock threw himself across the desk, closing his arms around Lestrade’s shoulders, pressing his cheek against the other man’s stubble.

The Detective Inspector went absolutely still, holding his breath, squeezing his eyes shut. ‘ _Just Sherlock,_ ’ he thought frantically, burying his instincts as far as he could. ‘ _Just Sherlock and look at him, he’s terrified, he’s just a boy somehow, he doesn’t know how to deal with this he can’t know he’s making it worse, he’s just a **boy** , for god’s sake **it’s just Sherlock**.’ _ He counted as he breathed against the squeezing of his lungs, nails biting into his palms as he fought against tremors.

“I’m sorry.”

He nearly jumped at the sudden words, abruptly pulled back into the present. “What for?” he asked, fighting for casual. Lestrade curled his fingers around Sherlock’s wrists, pulling the man’s hands away from his back, down to the desk. He didn’t let go, thumbs pressed against tender skin where veins shone blue. He held on to ground the man, yes, but more to keep his expressive hands from flying about- who knew where they might land?

“Not seeing,” he answered hollowly. “I should’ve gotten rid of this bastard a long time ago,” he spat, livid again. Mood swings, he hadn’t seen them this bad since Sherlock had disappeared into rehab for three months. “Destroyed him before-” he ground to a half, staring at Lestrade with big guilty eyes.

“Don’t worry about it,” Lestrade answered with a genial, practiced smile, patting Sherlock’s elbow. “You can do it now.”

Sherlock looked ready to say something but bit it back when Lestrade’s smile turned obviously strained. “Yes. Yes, of course. I’ll just be- ” He jabbed a thumb towards the door behind him. Lestrade sagged a little with relief, nodding curtly.

Sherlock tried a smile but, despite his typically fantastic acting skills, it came out lopsided and distressed. Lestrade cocked an eyebrow; Sherlock gritted his teeth and spun on his heel, leaving the way he’d come, snapping the door closed behind him.

Lestrade sagged, shuddering minutely. He swallowed, reaching for the lukewarm coffee on his desk, swishing it through his teeth, throat suddenly, unbearably dry.

/////

Mycroft stared blankly at the screen in front of him, forcing down the cry of distress trying to claw its way up his throat. He followed the line of Lestrade’s thumbs as they ruffled short silver strands, thinking of how dark they’d looked, shaping circles against Sherlock’s pale skin. He knew, distantly, that his breathing had no business being this quick and shallow; he hadn’t had a panic attack since four-year-old Sherlock had nearly drowned himself in the pond behind the family home.

Sherlock.

He’d never been jealous of Sherlock, not really. The boy was braver where he was more cautious, excitable where Mycroft was merely curious and yet... Mycroft was smarter, quicker. He knew it frustrated his brother to no end: not _because_ he was smarter but because Sherlock considered ‘mere’ government work to be a complete waste of Mycroft’s talents, found it absurd a man so clever would refuse the ‘interesting’ life out of laziness. Despite being a heap of trouble, Mycroft had never _really_ had anything but the deepest love for Sherlock. Occasionally he felt a little irritated by him, but never _envious_. The boy was far more handsome, of course, always slim, tall, dark-haired, gray-eyed, pale-skinned, with a nose and cheekbones stolen from a Greek statue and hands like a painting. 

Contrastingly, Mycroft thought his nose to be a little long for his face- his features, while not necessarily ugly, were certainly not worth particular notice. He was bony when he wasn’t a little plump, cheated unattractive lines with well-cut suits. His chest caved in, fingers knobby, arms weak, features locking together awkwardly.

Sherlock had a loveliness to notice, but Mycroft had always thought that effusive beauty would be a hindrance in his line of work; he could not afford for anyone to look too hard at him, to try too hard for his attentions or affections.

That feeling of inferiority hit him now, full-forced, a great ugly thing roaring with need.

Greg holding himself perfectly still with Sherlock’s long, graceful arms folding around his torso, coiling his fingers around the youngling Holmes’ white wrists.

Lestrade flinching away from his touch.

Mycroft gasped against the searing in his throat, fingers shaking as he reached for his mobile phone.

/////

When Lestrade finally managed to find his way to Mycroft’s flat, he was greeted only by Anthea, the woman flashing him a cool, professional smile.

“Good evening, Inspector.”

“Evening,” he muttered back, glancing past her- the place seemed empty. “Is Mycroft..?”

“Mr Holmes regrets the short notice, but his assistance was urgently required in Korea. He will return shortly, and wishes that you help yourself to his accommodation during his absence.”

He gaped at her; never in his memory had either Mycroft or Anthea been so coldly professional to him. It felt like a rebuffing.

“I see,” he stammered with a shiver, gripping the doorframe when she breezed past him, careful not to brush up against him. “Thanks.”

She nodded curtly, flashing another meaningless smile before vanishing through the exit.

Lestrade went straight to bed, curling tightly against the other man’s pillow.

It was looking to be a long week.

/////

(1) Underestimating Sally, he is.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, sorry about Mycroft.


	4. Paper Cranes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   despairingly un-edited, but I figure it's been taking so long already. Thank you all for your astounding patience! (and for anon for reminding me that I'd left Greg in an evil place. Yes, I know, not resolved... next chapter.)

Mycroft had spent the last three days in Japan, looking into every Pharmaceutical company that has ever even _considered_ carrying a UK company product for a common link, someone to fit the very loose description he has. ‘Hello, have you talked to anyone from the UK that has a lot of research information you can’t track and a fascination for your culture? That misunderstands your culture even? Someone you’ve seen often over the last several years?’ Oh yes, helpful. Worse, he had to communicate it without seeming intrusive, without being direct, and still getting the information he needed without giving the slightest impression that there might be an affairs investigation involved. Afraid of jeopardising their working relationship with other companies, the men he was speaking to would shut right down.

He had practice at this, of course, and thank god, because he wasn’t used to being emotionally invested; it made things so much harder.

It didn’t help that he was constantly thinking about Gregory Lestrade. Was he alright? How was he coping? How were the involved officers reacting? Did they know he was related to the case? Did he feel exposed? Did he need support? Did he _want_ support?

...Had he gone to Sherlock..?

He sat heavily on the hotel bed (too hard for his tastes, he was unfortunately addicted to the luxuries of comfort,) kneading the soft insides of his indoor slippers with his toes. He felt exhausted, anxious and empty: heavy. He wanted to go home and wrap himself in Greg’s cream blanket, fall asleep to the smell of sweat and cheap aftershave.

There wasn’t time.

He had a list of people to interview and- and then he’d have someone to _destroy._

\----------

Dimmock, Sally, Sherlock and John were sitting in a circle on the 221B Baker Street living room floor. All the furniture had been pushed out of the way, Sherlock’s endless assortment of random notes, experiments, possibly-Moriarty-related cases and miscellaneous unopened mail relegated to boxes and tucked into John’s sparse room for the time being. (Dimmock didn’t know enough about Sherlock to be surprised but Sally did; she politely avoided drawing notice to it, but she completely ceased any implication that Sherlock might not have feelings. She’d never seen him so serious about anything.)

They were surrounded by stacks of boxes of paper, each going through their own, working in relative silence. Newspaper clippings, medical journals, research prizes, medication sheets, employee listings, buildings owned by companies or company members, _registrars_ ... anything to narrow down their field of candidates. John would get up once an hour or so to make another batch of tea, Sally would help him carry in mugs; Dimmock left to get food twice, when he got too frustrated. Sherlock would sometimes pace while he read, throwing useless papers behind him willy-nilly, leaving the others to watch in resigned silence.

The worst part was that Sherlock apparently didn’t trust any of them not to miss a tiny detail, so every once in a while he’d deem it necessary to speed through everyone else’s ‘rejected’ pile to make sure. Sally got so angry once she almost tried to cram one of her articles into Sherlock’s mouth; she thought back to Lestrade, looking like a ghost, slipping back into his car and tearing away, and sat back down, viciously circling something possibly relevant with an acid green pen.

Eight hours in no one felt like they were getting anywhere.Sherlock’s started tearing through the boxes they’d already finished, so frustrated he was practically crying.

Sally exchanged a significant look with John; he sighed and lifted to his feet, taking Sherlock by the arm and dragging him bodily into the consulting detective’s bedroom.

They heard shouting, mostly in Sherlock’s threatening rumble, muffled just enough by the closed door that they could hear the tone but not make out most words, strange low sounds that were probably John’s ‘calm’ voice, the one that never completely failed to mask his anger. Banging. Then- the sound sank to muffled speech, tapered to nothing. Absolutely silence: no voices, no pacing, no objects being shuffled around as Sherlock resentfully distracted himself by inspecting things.

Sally and Dimmock stared at each other, both clearly uncomfortable.

After a good minute of nothing, they broke eye contact and went back to the reams of information, the quiet somehow more awkward then before.

John and Sherlock re-emerged twenty minutes later, the military man moving past them and into the kitchen. Sherlock looked rumpled: his usually-immaculate button-up shirt had twisted around his torso, half of his collar flipped upwards, one sleeve pushed up to his elbow. His belt was missing and his hair was a complete tangle. He moved more slowly than before, ambling forward and dropping to the ground, fumbling when he opened a new box.

Sally excused herself to help John with the tea, leaning awkwardly against the counter as she watched him go through a clearly habitual ritual, smoothly rinsing and drying four cups while plucking out milk, sugar, loose-leaf tea. She opened her mouth- so many things tried to come out at once nothing at all made it. She straightened up, trying to gather her thoughts. “So, uh... what just happened.” ...and failed, apparently.

John shrugged, pouring a dash of milk into Sherlock’s tea as he stirred Dimmock’s black-with-sugar with his weaker right hand. “He just needed a nap, that’s all. Sherlock intellectualizes so often he doesn’t realize it when the problem’s obvious. Freud would be proud.”

She stared at him, realizing that she probably looked crazy. “A _nap_.”

“Hm. Grab the left-over Chinese, would you?” He moved into the living room again, leaving her cup on the counter. She watched, dazed, before hurrying after him, snatching the styrofoam container in passing. She had to hurry back for the forks.

Sherlock meanwhile swayed slightly as he looked through papers at a significantly slower rate than before- not because he had gone stupid with drowsiness but because he was thinking about something else, glancing through his messy fringe at John, working quietly beside him, awkwardly using his right hand to eat as he marked papers with his left. John, who had had a delightfully soporific effect on him, warm and solid against his back as they curled together on his covers, at first wrestling him into submission before merely holding him (holding him together.)

It was very interesting.

\----------

Mycroft had barely entered the office of Opalesce Pharmaceutical‘s Research Head before he knew he had come to the right place. A series of knickknacks lined the middle shelf of Doctor Robert Stillman’s library; painted fans, a gleaming long knife of folded steel, books: an entire assortment of folded cranes. Beside the shelving hung a painted scroll, black, white and red of a great crane under a crimson full moon.

“Mr. Holmes.” Stillman rose to greet him; Mycroft noted how he went to bow before catching himself and reaching out to shake hands first. “Wonderful to meet you.” He smiled and it looked natural but all Mycroft could think was ‘you murderer.’ He sat back into a blush black-leather chair, gesturing Mycroft to a significantly smaller seat, looking for all the world like a nice, friendly man. “What can I do for you?

The chair wasn’t particularly comfortable, either. “Doctor Stillman. I’m sorry to bother you but I’ve been considering investing a good sum of money into your newest suggested product, and I’d like to protect my interests. I’m sure you understand.”

Stillman’s smile might have only looked sinister to Mycroft, but he felt chill at the sight of it. “Of course, of course. Let’s just go through it shall we?”

\----------  


John jerked awake at the sound of a triumphant yell. He was calling Dimmock before he even realized he’d taken his phone in hand, running down the stairs.

“Sherlock!”

“I found it, John, I found it!” John paused, still dizzy from the abruptness of interrupted sleep, to stare up at Sherlock. Instinct told him that all Sherlock really needed right now was hot soup and a warm bed- he was white where he wasn’t flushed, neck and temples glistening with what looked like fever-sweat. 

“Sherlock.”

The taller man brandished papers at John, talking far too rapidly about the information in his hands- some man named Stillman, Research Head, frequent trips to Japan, a warehouse by the docks specified for his department but lacking any other information- for that they would need CCTV footage or- honestly Sherlock would much prefer to simply break into the place. “Look, John, it’s perfect, it fits perfectly, call Dimmock, call Donovan, we have to go _now_.”

John sighed, stepping closer to press his hands against Sherlock’s neck, pressing his thumbs against the man’s jaw bone. Sherlock’s pulse fluttered erratically under his skin. “Sherlock, listen to me. Dimmock is coming.” He led Sherlock to the couch, pushing him down on it. “Until he gets here I need you to sit. I’ll get you something to eat.”

Sherlock struggled to stand up again; despite his clear eyes it was obvious he was having difficulty finding his balance. It was especially obvious to John, who had seen Sherlock fly between rooftops.

“John, I can’t-“

“Sherlock, _please_ , just stay there, eat, we’ll leave the moment Sally and Dimmock get here.”

Sherlock grumbled a weak protest but sank back down. John smiled, stroked Sherlock’s fringe back before slipping away into the kitchen.

How strange, Sherlock thought, that he was obeying so easily- John’s touch making him feel drowsy. Dare he say ‘comfortable’? (He’d never think of a word like ‘safe.’)

\----------  


It hadn’t been too terribly hard, steering the conversation towards Gregory Lestrade. A few vague comments about what had sparked his interest in the medication; wife dying from the disease Stillman was researching, new lover suggesting that he help assuage his grief by investing in a cure to stop the same from happening to anywhere else.

The idle banter that was meant to endear Stillman to a possible investor turned to this new lover, a healthier, happier conversation.

“He’s a DI. My brother works with him, you see. He’s- well. I’m sure you’d understand if you ever met him.”

“Oh?” Stillman leaned forward in his seat, his smile edged a little farther than natural, eyes flashing with eagerness.

“I ought to have a picture somewhere.” Mycroft patted his pockets, making a small sound of triumph as he plucked his wallet out, digging through it to pull out a picture of Gregory Lestrade. It was a little frayed around the edges, the bottom left corner folded in- he’d had it in his wallet since leaving for Japan, frequently pulling it out and back in to give it wear, rolling it between his fingers. It looked a little old and well-loved now. (He’d never had anyone’s picture in his wallet before. It made him anxious somehow. Embarrassed yet oddly proud.) 

He passed it to Stillman, focused entirely on his expression. The man barely noticed, accepting the image with an easy smile.

His eyes flashed with recognition, grin flashing to sharkish before he schooled his expression.

“My, he looks like he’s aged well.”

“He certainly has.” Mycroft answered back, irritated when he detected a hint of anger in his own tone. He watched Stillman as Stillman stared at the photo, tongue darting out to wet his lips as he took in the image of his favourite victim- the one he never got to kill.

“Oh,” Mycroft said after a moment, sounding as though it had just occurred to him and feeling as though he’d throttle the man if he had to sit through a moment more of Stillman’s shallowly-hidden recognition and desire. “He does- have this tattoo.” Mycroft blinked, cocking his head to the side, looking up as though he were visualizing it. “Right between his shoulder blades,” and a smile, as though recollecting it fondly.

When he glanced back down Stillman was watching him raptly, Greg’s pictures crinkling between the man’s fingers. “Although,” he said with a small frown, “he won’t let me touch it.” He noticed the delicate frisson moving up the doctor’s spine at the revelation. Didn’t like it. Wasn’t surprised by it.

“It’s a crane,” he said, gesturing to the hanging scroll, “what’s the symbolism?”

“Long life,” Stillman purred, “the aim of our company.”

“Apt indeed,” he smiled, “which is why I hope to support Opalesce.”  


“Quite a strange history, Greg. He has some very particular surgerical scars but he won’t at all tell me what they’re from. He doesn’t particularly like me to look at them either.” Mycroft shrugging with a single shoulder, feigned worry and confusion tugging down one side of his mouth.

“Does he?” the man asked, keeping his eyes fixed on the image, running his thumb over Lestrade’s face. Mycroft noticed the way Stillman shifted in his chair, pupils dilating, tracing his lips with his fingers before his free hand vanished under the desk.

Calm, stay _calm._ Mycroft wanted to wrap his hands around the man’s throat and squeeze until he couldn't breathe, stare him in the eye as he died. ‘I know, you sick fuck. I know all about you.’ But it was far more than he deserved.  


Mycroft had the power to destroy Stillman’s financial net, put him in a dark, dank little hole for the rest of his pitiful life, and that was exactly what he intended to do.

So he smiled instead, a crooked, bemused smile that said ‘I don’t understand it but isn’t he lovely anyway?’  Mycroft reached across the desk to take the picture back; he had to tug on it, the doctor looking rather reluctant to let it go.

“I must go.” They stood up at once, looking for all the world like two men that had just had a very nice conversation, reaching across to shake hands without any awkwardness. Mycroft thanked him for his time, Robert- ‘call me Bob’- suggested that they meet again ‘for sushi or sake perhaps’. Mycroft laughed and said he’d consider it, shutting the door behind him as he slid out.

He made it out of the building and into his car before the incipient eruption. Mycroft smashed apart every bottle in his car’s miniature fridge before drinking whatever could be safely consumed, trying to burn out the image of Doctor Robert Stillman’s lust-hazed eyes fixed on Lestrade’s picture. 


End file.
